My Summer of Locusts

A few weeks ago, overcome by allergies, I walked into the office of a random doctor. It didn’t matter whether she took my insurance, because I didn’t currently have any. I paid the $120 fee and waited for three hours. When I was finally called, I sat in the doctor’s office and rubbed my swollen face, scratched my nose, and clawed at my eyes. I’d been dosing myself with far too much Benadryl, but expected to be given something stronger, maybe a prednisone injection.

Instead, she gave me nothing. “I think,” she announced with a Polish accent, “that this is psychological. Purely so. And you are taking far too much Benadryl. ”

Outside, after buying some more Benadryl at a bodega and dry-swallowing two pink pills, I walked home. My roommate let me in. I immediately passed out on my bed. I thought nothing of it.

A few hours later, he was pounding on my other door — the one leading to our balcony — demanding to be let in. “There’s a bird, a snake, and a mouse in my room!” he said.

“That’s Biblical,” I said, but he was serious.

We sat in the kitchen — I think he had a chair backed up underneath the doorknob, but am I misremembering? We watched the door. “Oh my God,” he said. “Do you see it? Do you see it — those feathers trying to come out from under the door?”

I realized then I was dealing with someone who was potentially psychotic; had totally lost touch with reality. You were supposed to play along with them — or was that Alzheimer’s?

“OK,” I said. “I think so.”

We might have drank a beer together. I can’t remember. He asked me, meaningfully, where he was going to sleep that night; I said I didn’t know.

I went back to my room eventually, and woke to a stream of emails from him the next morning. This wasn’t unusual; he preferred to speak by email or text, not face-to-face. He’d sent weird, sexual e-mails before. Just ignore them, everybody told me.

So I did. But these were different.

…

And now I’m temporarily fixated on you. it’ll pass quickly. You smell so good. I didn’t even get started, but that’s a good thing and you nor I did anything wrong or unhealthy or out of line. I’m reiterating here.

Nothing actually happened. It almost did, for Christ’s sake and no clue why it stopped,

…

Not to worry. Really nothing happened. I made sure it didn’t escalate… So the good news is the date went extremely well last night thus not coming home. Very cute half Italian half Argentinian. Could turn serious finally!

Where? What? I had noticed, when I’d woken up, that something felt off. I had a bruise on my right upper arm. A blue towel hung from the coatrack next to my bed. I didn’t own any blue towels.

God dammit why didn’t I taste you when I had my one chance? Maybe awkward but not for me. Whoa not at all. Ok, I respect and you would too.

What one chance? What happened? Nothing? “Nothing”? Nothing, but it didn’t escalate? How exactly did he define “escalate”? Why was someone else’s towel on my coatrack?.

If you would ever let me, I’m always ready. It would be purely clinical, no long term emotion. I just REALLY like to do it. No pressure of course.

I have no memory of the experience, what happened in my bed when he “had the chance,” something that involved a towel.

So what happened? What do you think?

Did I have a lock on my bedroom door? No, I didn’t, it was broken. Did I need to live in fear? Maybe.

Don’t write about this, said a couple people. No seriously, don’t. Why not? Because he might recognize himself in this piece, even though his identity is completely obscured? Because he might flip out? Because the person who took advantage of me might be upset?

A week or two before that night, my life had been financially bleak, yes, but cheerful. I’d gone to a reading for one of my favorite authors with my boyfriend. When he opened up the floor for questions, I asked him about the Kennedy assassination and was delighted when he responded at length. I applied for jobs. I drank too much coffee. In short, I was up to my usual tricks.

After I told him what happened and showed him the emails, my boyfriend made a call to my roommate. I went in the other room so I have no idea what was said, other than my roommate admitted that he had to “pay the consequences” for his actions. He found a new place the next day.

Then, a new plague descended: eviction threats from my landlord.

People always talk of New York hitting you with not just one, but two or three, knockout punches at a time. The test, I suppose, is whether you stay and fight, or go to the ropes. There’s a point when you admit you’re not as young or as pretty; you’re unwilling to sleep with the proper people. Actually, cut that tired line about sleeping with people — I’m overwhelmed and I’m not thinking straight, reverting to clichés. I woke up one day with a severe stutter, a physical manifestation of stress that disappeared after a terrifying day of barely being able to spit out a sentence. I thought I might’ve had a stroke. It vanished after 24 hours.

And then there are the other plagues — not the frogs and the lice and the locusts, but the ones that are real: the apartment dance, the job thing, the rent joke.

Lately I’ve been waiting around the apartment during the day to see if I get served papers, just so I can know exactly how this is going to play out. It gives me something new to do, anyway, pad down to the mailbox every few hours.

Are they there yet? Are they there? Are we done?

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